


hot tonight

by diydynamite (orphan_account)



Series: weightless (cow chop band au) [3]
Category: The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/diydynamite
Summary: As far as apartments go, the one Brett's renting in Colorado isn't too shitty. The shower runs hot for about fifteen minutes, the stove doesn't leak gas and the bed is bug-free, so it's a hell of a lot better than the shithole he moved into at nineteen. The only problem he has with the place is that it's apparently easier to break into than a baby's cradle.





	hot tonight

**Author's Note:**

> title from the same song by tokyo police club

As far as apartments go, the one Brett's renting in Colorado isn't too shitty.

He'd flown down with Joel and a couple of Machinima executives to get everything approved, signed and squared away, and two months later, after all the administrative bullshit had been settled, he'd finally gotten the funds to record their EP. Joel had promised to produce it, which, really, meant nothing; Joel was the type to say anything over the top of a nearly empty glass of red wine, but Brett's pretty sure he can twist his arm enough to work on the title track and a few others. The only thing he had to do now was get the band into the studio and recording music, which wasn't too hard.  
  
It did require him to rent an apartment down in Colorado, which leads him back to his original dilemma: his apartment, as a whole, wasn't terrible. The shower runs hot for about fifteen minutes, the stove doesn't leak gas and the bed is bug-free, so it's a hell of a lot better than the shithole he moved into at nineteen. The only problem he has with the place is that, apparently, it's easier to break into than a baby's cradle.  
  
"How, the fuck, do you keep getting in here?" Brett asks despairingly. On the couch, Aleks glances at him and then shrugs, attention returning to his Gameboy nearly immediately. He supposes it’s his fault, in a way, he’d brought the guys over to his apartment a couple of weeks back to settle some admin and finalise the deal; he just hadn’t expected Aleks to take it as an open invitation to come over whenever. “Don't you have school? Why are you always over here?”

“School's out for summer.”

Brett sighs and deposits his groceries on the kitchen table. “Can't you go hang out with Trevor?” 

“His parents made him go for summer school.”

“James? Joe? Any of your other friends from school?”

“James and Joe are working.”

“Don't you have anything else in the world to fucking do?”

“Nope.”

And that's it. If he really tried, Brett’s pretty sure he could chase Aleks away, one way or another, but fuck it, he’s alone, away from his entire social circle back in LA, and all he has here is the band. Aleks camping at his apartment, it’s annoying, but it’s not worth fucking up their entire relationship, so Brett just tolerates.

But as far as unwanted semi-roommates go, Aleks isn't terrible. He doesn't make much noise when Brett is around, just sits on the couch or on the floor and plays games on his Gameboy, does his homework and sleeps the rest of the time. It becomes a routine, almost. Brett wakes up to an empty apartment, but by the time he gets back from his morning run, Aleks is in his living room, sound asleep. He makes breakfast for himself, usually just some yogurt and a smoothie, or toast and eggs if he's really feeling hungry, and then scrambles another two eggs for the extra mouth in the apartment.

In the morning, Brett does admin for the other bands Machinima foisted onto him to pass the time, and Aleks usually sleeps or plays video games or does whatever homework he has left. They head out for lunch, which Brett pays for more often than not, because Aleks is a broke senior in high school and Brett has a company card, and then it's a short walk over to Trevor's, where Joe and James meet them, and take whatever snacks Brett sees fit to buy them. The guys usually screw around until Trevor gets home, about one in the afternoon, and then it's up to Brett to get them to actually fucking practice their songs. 

In the meantime he's always organising, trying to get merch designs made, calling up any contacts they have in Littleton, just to ask for a venue to play for a night or two, so that he can hopefully scrape a tour together by the end of summer. Practice usually stops around the time Trevor's mom kicks them out, with a dirty look aimed especially at Brett (Trevor says it's because he's an adult and she thinks he should know better, which, well, fair enough), then they disperse. Brett gives them all a ride back to the nearest bus stop, then heads home and does whatever minimal housekeeping needs to be done. From there, he either heads out for a drink or turns in for the night. Wash, rinse, repeat.  
  
Still, the band's coming along great. They still have that unpolished sound, with the drive on the guitar amps turned up a little too much just for the punk rock effect, and their original songs still have a little too much raw emotion and swearing, but Brett can't help but be a little bit proud, especially when he gets them into the studio to re-record their EP. It's definitely rough around the edges, but he cleans it up a bit, fires off a couple audio files to Joel in an email and promises him a bottle of the finest wine his rapidly shrinking budget can buy in the postscript. As if to reward him, the people he calls start to call him back; mostly bars looking for live entertainment, and even a couple of small public venues. It’s hardly Madison Square Garden, but it’s sure as hell a promising start.

-

  
Then there's not much left to do but the flyering for their shows. It helps that Cow Chop already has a following, albeit a tiny one; most of the people they approach recognise their name on the flyers and agree to show up. James and Joe take flyering on weekdays, spending an hour or two outside venues or at the mall. Aleks and Trevor do it on weekends, and Brett waits all night with them, because the weekend crowds are significantly more rowdy than two high schoolers can handle, and Brett’s pretty sure he’ll be blamed one way or another if either of them gets hit over the head with a beer bottle. Trevor usually shows up about five, just as the sun begins to set, and hands out flyers for the pre-show crowd, but he begs out of post-show duty, citing curfew and overprotective parents.

Aleks, who doesn't seem to have much in the way of household rules, stays with Brett from around nine to near midnight. The muggy summer air doesn’t change from day to day, warm nights seeing Brett in his most comfortable muscle tank and shorts, trying his best to beat the heat. Aleks doesn’t really vary his wardrobe of black skinny jeans and beanies, although the obscure bands and video game t-shirts change now and then. Fridays always see them waiting outside the tiny concert venues to hand out flyers to the post-concert crowds, and more often than not, Brett gets a couple of cans of beer at the convenience store down the street, just to combat the humid heat that seems to rise out of the concrete and settle over the city in a haze after the sun sets. Aleks always claims a can, and Brett doesn’t protest after the first time; he’s not one to judge anyway, it’s not like he was entirely sober in high school either.

  
He learns a lot about Aleks during those sultry nights, conversation flowing surprisingly easy despite their age gap. For one, he learns that Aleks is full Russian, green card and all, and when Aleks asks if that would make it difficult to tour overseas, expression earnest, he tries his best to keep a straight face as he explains that they were a very long fucking way from an international tour. Aleks colours at that, flushes a little and gets defensive, but Brett gets it, the feeling of being eighteen and torn between being too eager to be an adult, to leave this shithole and chase his dreams, and a deep-seated fear of growing up, taking on the responsibilities and expectations and trying not to fuck up his life.

He learns that Aleks is in high school track, has an on-and-off girlfriend he rants to Brett about more than once, hates his physics teacher passionately, and is the youngest in his family. Aleks doesn’t share much about his home life, and he doesn’t push; some things you just don’t share. Brett learns, just from watching, that Aleks cares about his band members, even though he’d rather die than admit it - he treats Trevor like a younger brother when they’re together, pushes him around and makes fun of him with an undercurrent of affection Trevor doesn’t seem to notice or acknowledge. Brett knows better, he sees the way Trevor follows Aleks around, sides with him during arguments, gravitates to him unconsciously. Joe is more like a mentor; Brett sees him teaching Aleks sometimes, heads bent over their guitars during practice. He doesn’t even know what to call James - Aleks seems to see him as his best friend and worst enemy, depending on how they’re feeling; if Trevor is his younger brother, James is more like a mischievous older brother, challenging him and egging him on at the same time.

  
He learns that Aleks has taken a liking to him, more from observation than anything. It’s in the way Aleks relaxes his guard around him, always tags along wherever he goes, does what Brett asks without questioning, most of the time. That’s not the odd part - eighteen is still an impressionable age, and for all that Aleks tries to act cynical and world-weary, he’s just as susceptible as the next starry-eyed kid. Brett’s naturally outgoing, treats Aleks like an equal, doesn’t nag or lecture him - he lets Aleks tay in his apartment and makes him fucking breakfast, for fuck’s sake, it’s not exactly a leap of logic to conclude that he’s latched on like a duckling.

  
No, what’s disturbing is that Brett’s somehow developed a soft spot for the kid. He finds himself holding his tongue when he’s about to say something he knows will set Aleks off, going out of his way to get Aleks shit he likes for lunch, telling him about his life back in LA, recounting stories about other bands, showing off a little, here and there. It's always good to have a friendly relationship with the band he’s managing, obviously, but he's always maintained a professional distance, all too aware of the disconnect, the rift between the band and the manager. Maybe he doesn’t feel it as much around this band, not when they absorb him into their conversations and their lives so smoothly, but it’s still all uncharted territory, it’s not something he has experience with and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

He doesn’t know how to feel about the little spark of affection he feels when Aleks laughs at his jokes, or the unconscious grin that tugs at the corner of his lips when Aleks leans into him, on the curb in the car park at 9PM on a Saturday night, complains about this kid or that in school. He doesn’t know how to feel about the vague but unmistakable fondness that settles over him when he comes home on weekends to a sleeping Aleks on his couch. Brett ignores it, for the most part, because he knows it’s not real, it’s probably just the attention going straight to his ego, pushes down the feelings when they come and rationalises them away with the speed that comes with practiced ease.

  
-

  
It all comes to a head a couple of weeks into summer, on what might be the hottest, most humid day of the entire year, the kind of day where breathing feels more like inhaling water than air, where people stay the fuck inside with the air conditioning on full blast and an icy cold drink in hand. They’re sitting outside the event hall, which is holding the biggest rock concert of the summer, and the muffled bass and screaming guitar filters out, washing over them in a muted cacophony. Brett’s bought a six-pack of beer packed in a little cooler of ice, in a desperate attempt to stave off the heat, and they’re going through it alarmingly fast; he’s on his third and he’s pretty sure Aleks is too, judging from the way he’s leaning into Brett, head on his shoulder, idly folding a flyer into paper aeroplane with one hand, a joint held loosely in the other. They’ve been passing it back and forth; it’s shit quality, nothing like what Brett’s had back in LA, but he’s gone through his own stash already, and bad weed is better than no weed at all.

Aleks finishes the aeroplane and throws it into the air, lets the wind carry it down the street; it doesn’t make it very far, falling to the pavement a couple of feet away from them, and he nudges Aleks, snickering. “I guess you could say it was a shitty flier.”

There’s a beat when Aleks’ brain catches up, and then he starts giggling, and Brett looks over just in time to see him squeeze his eyes shut tight, laughter coming through in hard, sharp sounds, and a wave of dizzying affection washes over him, stronger than before.  
The moment passes, and Aleks opens his eyes, smiles up at him a little shyly, and he smiles back automatically. He isn’t sure what Aleks sees in his expression, but between one second and the next he’s leaning up into Brett’s space, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s brief, chaste, startles an “Oh,” out of Brett, and then Aleks is looking down, cheeks flushed red, and the sight is cute enough that Brett curls a hand under his chin. His brain is still muddled with the alcohol and haze of THC, and time seems to stretch on forever as Aleks looks up at him, the combination of hope and fear and embarrassment in his face enough to make Brett’s head spin. Then, like a rubber band, time snaps, and Aleks’ lips are on his again.

This time, he’s aware, he’s in control, and Aleks sighs against his mouth when he moves to deepen the kiss, licks across the seam of his lips, tastes the shitty beer and acrid smoke that stains the inside of Aleks’ mouth. The wet slide of their mouths against one another feels good, feels right, and the little noise Aleks makes, soft and startled, when Brett nibbles at his bottom lip feels like it’s imprinted into his memory. He feels Aleks shiver when he runs a hand through his hair, hears his quiet whine when they break apart, and can’t help but smirk at the way he scoots closer, presses his cheek into Brett’s chest and forces him to wrap his arm around Aleks.

The air is humid, suffocating, and he can smell the distinct aroma of weed as Aleks takes a long hit off the joint, but there’s an electricity in his blood that’s fighting off the sluggishness, and it has everything to do with the way Aleks hums and squirms against him when Brett runs his hand through his long, shaggy hair and tugs at the ends.

Like an overstretched rubber band snapping, the quiet stillness of the night is broken instantly when the doors of the event hall swing open, and the crowd comes spilling out then. They scramble to their feet, hurrying to the doors as quick as they can. All words are lost, and Brett doesn’t even see Aleks for another twenty minutes, too caught up in handing the flyers out and firing off the spiel he’s practiced, selling their band to anyone who’s interested to listen, but somehow he still can’t get rid of the stupid, dopey grin that’s tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He’s so fucked. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you if you read this far :") sorry for any glaring mistakes and i hope you enjoyed! comments always appreciated :)


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